The Season of Bad Advice …

It was the raspy voice of the incorrigible Bannoncanon. He was the director of the Trumpassic Period’s end of the year play. From atop the Bullee-Tar Pit he gazed over the Puhl-DePlugg Reservoir with the Tyrumposaurus, the Mitchgetbacktowork and the Tennesseecorker.

“Now, then,” continued the Bannoncanon, “I’m calling this the Season of War.”

“Why are we always at war?” asked the Mitchgetbacktowork.

“What did I say about cutting off your oxygen?”

The Mitchgetbacktowork took a deep breath in case he was serious.

The Bannoncanon raised a claw in the air.

“The opening scene will be like the Ides of Marching Together.”

“Oh,” said the T-Rump, “like we did with the Putinodon.”

“Quiet. T-Rump, you’re going to be the Caesarsaurus.”

“But of course.”

The Bannoncanon tapped his bottom lip as he stared down the Mitchgetbacktowork and the Tennesseecorker.

“Which one of you is going to play the Brutusbackstabus?”

The Tennesseecorker tapped the Mitchgetbacktowork on the shoulder.

“It’s all yours. I want to be the Nerofiddler. We need some laughs.”

“This is my play,” roared the Bannoncanon. There is NO Nerofiddler.”

“What’s that?” asked the T-Rump.

“No Post-Roast Rome Remains?” ventured the Tennesseecorker.

“No,” said the Bannoncanon.

“You’re losing me,” said the T-Rump. I think it’s time to send out a nasty Trollertweety about that son-of-a-brontosaurus Kaepernickelback.”